Questing Parson

Let's Keep In Touch

The parson received the text about five in the afternoon. Adam Trawick, an old, old friend updated him on his approach to the parson's town.

The parson and Adam had been the best of friends during college. Life had taken them in different directions. It was by chance they bumped into each other at a hospital in the Really, Really Big City. They'd promised to contact each other soon. Adam had followed through.

Adam had been meeting with an architect. Adam was the chairperson of the building committee at his church. They were planning on building a new sanctuary. It was going to be a very involved project. The church, the parson thought, was lucky to have Adam at the helm. Returning home from the meeting
Adam was passing through the parson's town.

The parson headed toward the coffee emporium. The two arrived at almost the same time. Inside the beverages were ordered. They took a sat at a table in the corner. The two began to catch up on old times, back when the parson and Adam had no cares and no woes, back when getting through Dr. Beckman's statistics class was the major challenge to an otherwise perfect existence, back when they were making plans to dazzle the world with their combined onslaught following graduation.

They both exchanged stories of children and grandchildren, of career paths followed and changed, of wives and lovers, and, even at their age, plans for the future.

Both now joked with each other over how their expectations had bumped against reality, how the conflict had tempered their ambition and sculpted them to find meaning in careers back then totally unexpected. And now they sat in the coffee shop reflecting on the unforeseen paths they'd taken.

“Remember, Vicki?” asked Adam.

“I'll never forget Vicki,” the parson smiled.

“Ever hear from her after graduation?”

“Never,” said the parson.

“Franklin Hodges, I wonder what became of him?”

“He's another one who vanished after school.”

“Strange, how people turn corners in life and just don't look back,” Adam reflected.

“I know what you mean,” the parson replied.

“How about Jeff Stewman?”

“Jeff came through town when I was in graduate school. We shared a pizza but I haven't heard from him since.”

“That is surprising. You guys were really close back in those days.”

“You know, that day he came through town. I remember we exchanged phone numbers and promised we'd keep in touch. He never called, and I don't know where his phone number is.”

Their conversation continued until night began to slowly close the door to the sky. Adam said he needed to head down the road. The parson acknowledged he had a few things to attend to. The rose, headed out to door to their respective cars, shook hands an.d hugged.

“You know, Adam,” the parson remarked. “Considering we're in our seventies, we probably shouldn't wait another twenty years to get in touch.”

Bill Moyers and Andrew Bacevich Discuss Changing Our Military Mindset

Life In A Different Time

As the President of the United States delivered his State of the Union Address, the parson was settled on the sofa with Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion curled up beside him. The parson listened intently but not so intently his mind did not wander.

The parson remembered the time when, as a pre-teen long before the word “re-cycle” was part of the American conversation, his daddy lectured him for not saving the Coke bottle to turn in for the deposit.

The parson remembered the day he got home from school late because he'd been kept in detention at school. His dad listened to his explanation. His dad agreed the teacher was wrong and the parson was right, but his dad punished him anyway because he'd not spoken respectfully in his protest to the teacher.

The parson remembered the night as the family gathered in the den to watch a movie on the black and white television. The movie was about a company of soldiers bogged down in the horrors of war in Italy. At a particular tragic scene in the drama the parson turned to see tears streaming down his dad's cheeks. He couldn't articulate it then but that night he understood the pathos of war and sacrifice.

The times were different then. Perhaps it was the result of being raised by a generation who had learned the hard way what sacrifice meant. Perhaps that generation born in the Great Depression and called upon to engage in the largest war the world has ever known were more determined than any other to make the world different for their children. Perhaps it simply was a period of greater civility, when the President of the United States was never referred to by his last name unless it was proceeded by his title. Perhaps is was a time more akin to that fictional tavern “Cheers” where everybody in the neighborhood knew your name. Most likely, it was all of that. But it was more.

It was a time when everyone was treated respectfully unless they'd proven beyond doubt they did not deserve respect. It was a time when one stood when one's elders walked into the room. It was a time when the neighbors would correct the wayward child whose parent's were unaware without fear of reprisal. It was a time when parents actually attended the PTA meeting, when grandparents lived with their children, when … well, the parson thought to himself, it was a time that when remembered birthed nostalgia.

The parson didn't watch the State of the Union address on the television. He watched it on his laptop. It's the same laptop he uses to write his blog, his sermons, to inform himself of the news of the day, to impersonally keep in touch with others. And it is the mechanism by which the parson isolates himself from interaction with people in the way he interacted in the days of his youth.

Charlie Brown, somehow knowing the speech was over, raised himself from his curled position. He stretched. He hopped off the porch. He went to the door and then looked back at the parson with a look of “Well ….” on his face.

The parson rose, opened the door to allow Charlie Brown to go outside to do what he had to do. The parson waited on the porch. He stared down the hill on which he lived toward the house of the neighbors across the street. Their light was on. The were up. Perhaps, they'd been watching the President's address also.

The parson stared and stared and as he stared he remembered again those days of his youth. And the parson made a vow. Tomorrow, he vowed, he would go down the the neighbor's house, knock on their door, and proclaim, “Hi, I'm the parson. I love across the street. What's your name?”

Thank You, Mr. President

Welcome Home, Soldier! Thank you for your service!

Photo by Sgt. Ben Cossel, 196 MPAD

Letter To A Sanctimonious Idiot

Bryan Fischer
Columnist
and
Director of Issue Analysis for Government and Public Policy
American Family Association

Dear Mr. Fischer:

I normally reserve this space for stories that revolve around the life of the Questing Parson, a retired pastor who still serves a small little church out in the country. They are stories, I hope, that keep things on a positive side and provide a chuckle here and there. I don't often express opinions outside the persona of “The Parson.” But in your case I have decided to make an exception.

I make the exception because you, sir, are … hmmm, how shall I put it? You are an idiot. Now my Mama would be a bit upset that I just called you an idiot. She would have told me I had to respect you because you're an ordained minister. But my Mama never had to put up with the damnable swill that spews from your mind.

How dare you question the correctness of awarding the Medal of Honor to United States Army Staff Sgt. Salvatore Guinta. While, in your column “The feminization of the Medal of Honor”, you acknowledge that Sgt. Guinta “took a bullet in his protective vest as he pulled one soldier to safety, and then rescued the sergeant who was walking point and had been taken captive by two Taliban whom Sgt. Guinta shot to free his comrade-in-arms,” you then say, “We have feminized the Medal of Honor.”

Here's where I get my assessment of your mental capacity” You point out that the Medal of Honor has been given in the latest conflicts for saving lives and for not killing people. And then you show your ass by stating: “When are we going to start awarding the Medal of Honor once again for soldiers who kill people and break things so our families can sleep safely at night?”

Let me get this straight. Taking enemy fire while dragging your fellow soldier to safety, chasing down two enemy thugs who are attempting to drag another soldier into captivity and then rescuing that soldier and dragging him back to safety all the while hearing the rounds whip around your space and knowing that at any minute your brains may be splattered all over the landscape is “feminine”?

I've read your biography, Reverend Fischer. You never served in the military did you? You've never known fear so penetrating your innards shake and your bowels contract, have you? You've never come face to face with the certainty of your immediate demise, have you? You've only pontificated from the safety of your closeted comfort and railed down judgment on anyone who does not share your disconnected view.

We have feminized the Medal of Honor by giving it to people who save lives rather than killing? Are you nuts? Have you read any of the scriptures on the right hand side of Malachi? There's a great story there about this fellow from Nazareth who taught that “Greater love has no one than to lay down one's life for another.” And that's what Sgt. Guinta practiced that day.

So go take a hike, you sanctimonious ____ (Well, there's a word I wanted to put there, but the memory of Mama washing my mouth out with soap prohibited it.) We both know if you were there that day with the smell of gun powder all around you, to say nothing of the smell of blood, to say nothing of the smell of fear, the panic, the confusion, the sound and the feel of projectiles flying all about you, would have placed you in such a panic that you would not have even attempted to match the feats of heroism for which Staff Sgt. Salvatore Guinta received the highest honor this nation can bestow. And praise God that he got that Medal for saving lives.

I fear you would just have stood there and pissed your pants.

And by the way, a lot of the members of my family have spilled blood on foreign soil in an attempt to save lives, including yours. So while Mama might have been mad about that sentence above, I'm also quite sure if she heard what you said and how you, by diminishing Sgt. Guinta's self-sacrificing exploits, diminished our loved ones who served, she would have slapped you silly.

I remain, one angry Parson,

The Reverend Guy Kent
Elder
The United Methodist Church
and
The Questing Parson

A Missed and Remembered Christmas

 It was forty-five years ago. The wheels of the plane left the runway of Scott Air Force Base. We were headed west. 

My assigned duties ended on December 23rd. But my active duty tour did not end until December 28th. Something was definitely not right here. I pointed out the disappointing dates to my commanding officer. He volunteered that it was fine with him if I went home, but that since I was a part of the Georgia Air National Guard I would have to have the proper authorizing authority there request my return.

I left his office with a smile on my face. He didn’t know the proper authorizing authority in the Georgia Air National Guard was my father. I made the phone call.

“You want me to do what?” he asked.

I explained the situation.

“So, you want me to call up your commanding officer and request that my son be released from duty early. Are you out of your mind?”

Geez, I never knew Daddy was so gung-ho!

Turned out there were others who were going to be on active duty during that time who, also, had nothing to do. I don’t know who it was who came up with the idea. I don’t remember if I volunteered or someone asked me. But, having nothing to do until my active duty time was up, I went along. 

We flew from one Air Force base to another, picking up Airmen, Marines, Sailors and Soldiers and taking them to the nearest Air Force facility to their home. From one side of the country to the other we flew, making sure someone kept their promise to “be home for Christmas.” It wasn’t until the day after Christmas we returned to our home base.

After our “mission” we settled down in the barracks, watched some TV and stuffed ourselves at the mess hall.

I finally begged a ride myself back to Georgia. Daddy was there to greet his son who had completed his ENTIRE obligation to the United States Air Force. I remember that day so well. He was glad I was home; and he was proud I had served.

I missed Christmas that year, but a lot of others did not, and that made one of the best ever.